Wounded (12 page)

I listen to the sounds of false enthusiasm and try to banish the whirling maelstrom of thoughts from my head. Her breasts flash into my mind. Her eyes on me. Her lips as she smiles, a real smile meant for me. Small and hesitant, as if she has to remember how to smile.

SEVEN

RANIA

The client, Mahmoud, is slow finishing. It is difficult to summon the strength needed to fake enjoyment. He is thin, all hard angles and rough, clumsy hands. Mahmoud is one of my few clients who is not a soldier. He is an older man, widowed. Lonely. He pays me well, is respectful, and does not hit me or try to extort more from me than what he has paid for. But he is clumsy. So slow. Unintentionally rough.
 

All I can think of is Hunter. His eyes on me as we exchange halting conversation. His hand on mine, a strange comfort. Just a touch. A hand on my hand. But it tells me I am not alone. Not seeking to gain anything from the contact, but rather impart something, give something. He, too, has lost his parents. I think he was very close to the soldier who died. Derek. I saw him grieving, when he thought I was not looking. He did not weep, and I do not think he can, any more than I.
 

Hassan chose to be a soldier, so his death was not a surprise, but it still hurts. My heart still mourns for him. I have always missed him, as I did not see him for many years. Now he is dead and truly gone. But I cannot weep for Hassan. I have cried all my tears, and now my sadness has no way to get out except through anger. I think Hunter is the same, except his anger is harder, deeper. Kept deep down in the bottom of his soul. I do not think he recognizes or understands his own anger. His loneliness.

Mahmoud leaves, handing over my money without looking directly at me.
 

When I go back home, Hunter is sleeping, or pretending to. I have felt his eyes on me when I clean myself, and I have sneaked glances at him and I have seen his discomfort. Mahmoud was my last client for the day, so I take a shower. It is quick and cold. I have no privacy, and I know Hunter is trying not to watch me. His determination to give me some semblance of privacy is difficult for me to accept or understand. I am a whore. Why should I care if he sees my nude body? But I do care. He knows it, and he does something about it.
 

When he touched my knee that first time, I was sure he meant to take it further. I was sure he meant to touch me, get me to touch him, and so I tried to give it to him. I thought it was what he expected, and I have learned the hard way that men will stop at nothing to get what they want from me. Hunter is wounded and weak now, but he can still hurt me. And when he heals, he could do worse. There is little worse than to have a man force himself on me. Even when they pay me afterward, they have still raped me.
 

 
Something in my heart tells me Hunter would not do that, but I cannot trust my heart.
 

*
 
*
 
*

Abdul comes today, which means it has been a week. Hunter has been in my house for over a week now.
 

Abdul is not the first to hit me, to force his will on me. I have no power to stop him, now that he has me. He could kill me and no one would know or care. He could beat me senseless, and no one would do anything. If Abdul finds out about Hunter, he would kill both of us.

I try to distract myself from my fear by talking with Hunter, learning each other’s languages. Hunter learns quickly, more so than I. He can say many things, but not enough to allow us to really converse. Soon he will be able to, I think. He is making the leap from parroting words to stringing sentences together, making complete thoughts.
 

When he can, what will we talk about?

It is time. Abdul is coming soon. I wait for him in the mosque. I have a knife hidden in the blankets nearby. I do not know what I would do with it, but I feel better with it at hand. I refuse to let a man like Abdul be the end of me.

He is here. Swaggering, fat-bellied, beady-eyed. Like a giant hog. Bristly, greasy, violent, dangerous.
 

I do not stand when he swaggers in. I stare up at him, meeting his gaze. He stands over me, grins, then unbuckles his belt. Always before now, he has pushed me to my back and done his business. I can tell by the evil twist of his lips that he has something else in mind. He drops his pants, revealing his short, thick member, hard and sticking straight out.
 

He gestures at himself. “Suck, whore.”

“It costs extra.”

“I will pay you what I wish, bitch. Suck it.”

“Pay first. One hundred extra.”

I do not even see his hand move. I find myself lying on my side, cheek throbbing. Abdul is above me, a pistol barrel pressed to my forehead.

“Whore!” he yells. “Do what I tell you, or I will kill you. You are nothing but a filthy whore. I pay you because I am generous. Today, you will give me what I want, and you will not be paid. Your payment will be your life. Do you understand?”

I can only nod. He grabs my hair and drags me upright, thrusts my face against his crotch. His member bumps my closed lips. I consider biting him, but I know he’ll kill me. The gunshot will alert Hunter, who will drag himself here to look for me. He will be killed, and then my work to save him will be wasted.

I do as I am told. He is unwashed. He tastes vile. He fists his hands into my hair, pulls me against his crotch, jabbing himself into my throat violently, choking me. I gag, nearly vomit, which is when he finishes, filling my throat with his seed. I cannot stop it then. I turn my head to the side and vomit on the cracked tile floor beside the blankets.

Abdul laughs. “Next time, do not argue.” He leans down and puts his face next to mine as I heave. “If you argue with me again, I will kill you.”

He swaggers away, buckling his belt. I remain there, kneeling on the hard floor, vomiting. Eventually I am able to stop, and I make my way back home, wiping my mouth. My cheek throbs, bruised.
 

I stumble into the bathroom and brush my teeth obsessively.
 

I cannot look at Hunter. He sees me, though, and exclaims angrily in English. Tries to get up.

“No. Sit,” I say. “I am fine.”

“Not,” he says in Arabic.

He begins the long, torturous struggle to his feet, so I kneel beside him and let him look at me. He takes my chin between gentle fingers, turns my face to the side to examine my cheek. His brow furrows, and anger flashes in his blue eyes. He touches my cheek, his finger a feather-light brush along the swollen skin. The longer he touches me, the hotter the rage in his eyes grows.

He says something in English, a single growled question. I don’t need to know the meaning of the word to know what he asked.
Who?

I shake my head. “No.” He understands that much. “I do not want you involved. He will kill you. He will kill both of us.”

“Who?” He says it again in English.
 

“Abdul.” I have to think hard about how to use gestures and our limited mutual understand to communicate who Abdul is. “Soldier, general.”

He shakes his head, shrugs. I stand up, try to assume an “attention” position, heels together, back straight, and then I salute. Hunter laughs at my pantomime, but nods, understanding. I draw my fingers in a wide rectangle above my left breast, meaning the row of medals and other colorful things a high-ranking soldier wears there, then pat my shoulders, meaning the rank insignia. Hunter seems confused still. I sigh.
 

I hit on an idea. I put my forefinger on my upper lip, indicating a mustache, and say, “Saddam,” and hold my hand above my head. Then I move my hand down a few inches, indicating a slightly lower rank, and say, “Abdul.”

Hunter’s eyes widen as he comprehends my meaning. Abdul is a high-ranking general not far beneath Saddam Hussein himself. Or, he was until Saddam was overthrown by the Americans. Abdul has been a regular client for many years, since before he achieved his current rank.
 

I sit down again, and Hunter touches my cheek once more. “No,” he says. His voice is hard, angry, determined. “I dead him.”

I laugh at his mangled Arabic and shake my head. “No. Say, ‘I will kill him.’” I repeat it, pantomiming stabbing.
 

He nods and repeats what I said. “I will kill him.”

There’s no humor in my eyes or voice now. “
No!
” I say it in English and Arabic. “No.”

He does not respond, doesn’t argue, but I can see in his eyes that he hasn’t changed his mind. He intends to kill Abdul for hitting me. I cannot make him understand. This is my life. This is my job. How I survive. If Abdul ends up dead, it could ruin my business, ten years’ worth of establishing clients and a reputation as Sabah.
 

But something in my heart yearns to let Hunter do as he wishes. Something in me twinges and twitches, like an unused muscle coming to life. He wants to protect me. He sees me hurt, and there is pain in his eyes, anger for me.
 

He does not know me. He does not even truly speak my language, nor I his. We know nothing of each other. We are enemies. Our people are at war. He cannot protect me. Not from the likes of Abdul. Not from anyone.
 

Hunter’s eyes are mere inches from mine. I suddenly realize how close I am to him. His thigh brushes mine. His body is near enough for me to feel the heat pouring from him. I can see the individual hairs of his beard growing on his chin and cheeks, thick and black. A bead of sweat slides down his temple, curves over his cheekbone to mingle with the stubble of beard. He wipes his cheek on his shoulder, smearing the sweat into a shiny patch of wetness.

His eyes pierce mine, so blue, hot and deep and quavering with a tangle of emotions. I wonder what he is thinking. He licks his lips, tongue tip sliding over his lower lip, a pink dart.
 

I do not realize what is happening at first. His face grows closer to mine, his eyes wide and locked on mine, so, so blue, so close. What is he doing? I cannot move. I am frozen by his nearness, trembling with fear and anticipation. This is it. Now he will take what he wants from me. He is still wracked with pain, I can see it in the way the corners of his eyes crinkle and the way his free hand clenches the blanket so tightly his knuckles turn white. But his other hand is still touching my chin, my jaw, the skin beneath my ear, his touch as gentle as a breeze. And now his lips are touching mine; why? What is this? He is kissing me? Clients do not kiss. They do not try, and I would not let them. It is sex, not love.
 

I remember my mother kissing my father once when she thought I was not looking. They loved each other, Mama and Papa. She put her lips to his, and their mouths moved together, as if they were eating each other’s tongues. I did not understand it then, but now I do.
 

He tastes faintly of meat and garlic and something else unique and indefinable. Something distinctly male. I do not know what to do. I am afraid of this kiss, what it means, what it has begun, where it will lead, why it is happening. I am afraid of Hunter. He is confusing. Strong, and huge, and hard, but gentle with me. Angry when I am hurt. I have seen wounded men before, and they were weak, barely able to move.
 

Once, a few years ago, a client hit me in the side because I would not do what he wanted. He broke my rib, and I could not work for many days. I nearly starved. I told Abdul what had happened, why I could not entertain him, and Abdul did something. Made sure the client never came back. Not for me, but so Abdul could continue to enjoy my services. Each motion was impossibly painful. Each breath hurt worse than the blow that broke the rib. I could not move for the pain. Hunter has at least one broken rib, and he continues to move. It hurts him, I can see, but he moves anyway.
 

He kisses me carefully, gently. Hesitantly. It is…soft and wet and hot. I do not stop. I want to stop, want to run away from him and his eyes that see me, his hands that touch me in a way I do not mind but should. His presence confuses me. I do not run away. I let him kiss me, and I know I should not, but I do.
 

He pulls away finally, palm flat on my cheek, eyes searching me for a reaction. I do not know how to react. How to feel. I am confused. So turned upside down by him and by the kiss that I cannot move, cannot breathe.
 

Something hot and salty stings my eyes. Am I bleeding? I touch my eyes and look at my finger. I am crying. Why? I do not know. Am I sad? What is this feeling in my heart, in my chest? It is a tightness, warm and thick, spreading through me. My skin tingles where he touches me. My thighs tremble, and between them…I feel a dampness, and a strange clenching heat, a tension like need.
 

His thumb brushes the tear from my cheek, then the other side. He is still close enough to feel his breath on my face.

My lips tingle and throb where his touched mine.

It is madness, I know, but I find myself kissing him. Pressing my lips to his, a slow falling forward into him. His lips part and his hand curls around the back of my neck, holds me at the nape and pulls me closer, kisses me back.

Something touches my teeth, my lips. His tongue. It is a bizarre sensation. Invasive and frightening. I pull away and look at him, and I can feel the confused expression on my face.

What in Allah’s name am I doing, kissing this American soldier?

I flee, wondering why I suddenly called upon Allah, why I let Hunter kiss me, why I kissed him back, why his tongue in my mouth was not unpleasant.

I wonder, as my feet wend their way through streets and alleys, why do I feel a deep, coiling need in my belly to kiss him again?

What do I do? What is happening to me? What have I done?

EIGHT

HUNTER

Why the fuck did I kiss her? It wasn’t a conscious thought or intent. It just…happened. She was there next to me, her leg brushing mine, that small point of contact burning through me with lightning awareness. Her cheek was bruised and purpling, sending white-hot lances of rage through me.